


Raw

by AnonymousHime



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, F/M, PTSD, Post-Ishval, Roy-centric, implied royai - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-11
Updated: 2018-01-11
Packaged: 2019-03-03 15:20:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13343985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnonymousHime/pseuds/AnonymousHime
Summary: After he returns from the war, Roy ponders what exactly it is that he’s feeling.(Aka: I haven’t been able to update my current stories so here’s an older drabble I wrote to buy me some time... (･_･; ) )





	Raw

First, he felt it in his throat. Rough and dry as each grain of sand he inhaled tore into his parched mouth, burning and irritating the flesh as he reached for his canteen in hopes of finding relief. The liquid burned more, however, and he soon realized he was no longer in the desert—instead, he found himself in a familiar office having a private affair with the bottom of a bottle. He took yet another swig, this time to find a different kind of relief.

Next, he felt it on his hands. His gloves lay on the table beside him, the crisp white almost blinding on the newly issued pair; but in his eyes, the blood red remained prominent upon them. He rubbed his rough skin, raising his sleeve to note that it was almost as white as the pristine weapons that the flesh hid behind, never seeing the light of day. He told himself that he could leave the gloves there, just for breakfast, and that this bare skin was normal, comfortable, and safe. Yet, he found he still couldn’t leave his bed without the destruction gripping his hands and guiding him out of the door.

Finally, he felt it in his heart. He felt it in the blonde hair that he desperately caressed, empty sherry eyes expressing whispers of concern and controversy even though they both knew neither one of them was going to stop. His lips on the tender nape of her neck held no feeling, no emotion, only basic instinct and desire. They both knew they were merely escaping, taking full advantage of their moment to forget before being plunged into the aftermath of guilt. It was merely routine, now—masking their remorse in pleasure before returning to reality and adding to the pit of shame weighing in their lungs.

As the sun rose, the expectations of society came with it, and thus he began to don his crisp blue uniform and comb his raven hair. He gazed into the mirror at the red scratches on his pale skin, whether self-inflicted from a terror-induced vision that night or the result of too much passion from a certain Lieutenant earlier that evening, he couldn’t be sure. What he did know, however, is that he was finally able to place a name on the foreign sensation that overwhelmed his body and soul since he disembarked the train in Central Station, preparing to return to his life as if he hadn’t just massacred millions of innocents. He let out a monotoned hum, a smirk twitching at the corner of his lips though the shine in his eyes betrayed him.

Roy Mustang felt raw.


End file.
